Chapter 8: I Don’t Hate Them
Logan leaned back on the leather couch, swirling the drink in his hand as he threw Zeke a lopsided grin. "You know... I’ve got a friend. Stunning, sharp, knows how to have fun. You two might hit it off."
Zeke didn’t respond. He kept his gaze on the amber liquid in his glass, the faint reflection of the club lights flickering inside it.
Logan chuckled. "Okay, not your type? Just say the word, I’ll find another. Blonde? Brunette? Quiet, loud, bookish, wild, you name it, I can arrange an introduction."
Still nothing.
Logan arched a brow and leaned closer, nudging Zeke’s arm. "Come on, man. What is your type, anyway? Let your buddy help you get out of this post-divorce gloom."
Zeke’s jaw tightened. He set his glass down with a soft clink, then turned his head slowly toward Logan. His voice was calm, but there was a sharpness to it now.
"Tell me, Logan... doesn’t your father or grandfather ever question why you’re still single? Or are they too busy bribing senators to notice you’re thirty and still acting like a frat boy?"
Logan blinked. "Damn, okay."
Zeke leaned back into the couch, eyes briefly closing as he exhaled through his nose. "Mind your own life, Logan. I’ll handle mine."
There was a beat of silence between them. Then Logan, to his credit, just raised both hands in surrender.
"Alright, alright. No matchmaking tonight. But you can’t blame me for trying. You look like hell."